Page 57 of Wall

“How did you get past it?”

“Spending some of that money helped. I went to Tuscany. Took my son and his wife, before Little Tommy was born.”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Italy.”

“It’s beautiful. But I’ll tell you what it took to let go of the anger. I had a few glasses of wine at a family reunion, and I got into a conversation with his sister. She got to talking, all about how they almost starved when the mill closed, and their dad lost his job. They ate grass to try to fill their bellies. Can you imagine?”

I shake my head.

“I knew times were tough when he was young, but I didn’tunderstand. And we never really talked about it.”

“You’re not angry anymore?”

“No. But I wish I could tell him I understand. And whack him upside the head. I wish he would have trustedusmore.”

“You would have bought the store brand cream cheese for him?”

“Not even once.” Miss Janice laughs, and I stand to say my goodbyes.

A wave of dizziness and nausea washes over me. I mumble my goodbyes to Miss Janice, and I barely make it to the bathroom before I throw up the remnants of my late lunch. Mostly, I’m dry heaving.

Oh, Lord. This feeling issofamiliar. It’s not normal queasiness. It’s a bloated, gross barfiness that vomiting doesn’t actually help. It’s the worst. I flush, pee, and wipe. And I look down at the tissue—force of habit—and there’s a brownish streak.

Blood.

All my blood drains to my feet. I can hear my heart pounding in the cold, empty bathroom.

Not again.

I can’t breathe.

Maybe it’s a mistake. I wipe again. Another streak.

I need to call John.

I wash my hands and rush off for the lockers, pulling out my phone. My fingers shake as I dial.

This can’t be happening again. It has to be a mistake.

My heart thuds in my chest. I’m panicking. I need to stop. Maybe it’s implantation bleeding.

I always told myself that first. Until I couldn’t explain away what was happening.

I need to hear John’s voice.

The phone rings.

I grab my coat and purse, waving at the nurse’s station out of habit.

And rings.

Why is he not answering? Every time I call him now, he picks up on the first or second ring. That first week we were back together, I made up dumb reasons to call him. To ask him if he still liked pickled beets. Remind him that he’d left his gloves on the kitchen counter. Every time he picked right up—guys shouting in the background or trucks beeping as they back up—and my belly danced.

He’s not picking up now.

Maybe he’s on his bike.

But the ride ended hours ago. He texted when he got back to the clubhouse. Sent me a picture of the band.

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